


Letters in Blood (Literally)

by isnt_it_pretty



Series: Of Broken Hearts and Kindred Spirits [2]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Background Mercedes/Annette, Chronic Pain, Coming Out, Good God This Title is so Edgy, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mercedes is an angel, Referenced Suicide Attempt, Self-Harm, mom friend Mercedes ftw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-10
Updated: 2019-09-10
Packaged: 2020-10-13 19:16:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20587676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isnt_it_pretty/pseuds/isnt_it_pretty
Summary: Sylvain has never told anybody he's gay, that is until he has a breakdown at 2am in his college dorm room.





	Letters in Blood (Literally)

**Author's Note:**

> This was literally called 'Mercedes is an Angel' until I came up with a name.
> 
> Also, who wants to help me come up at everybody's majors? (Also what background ships would you like to see?)

Its Mercedes who finds out first, because of _ course _it is.

Really, he didn't mean for anybody to find out, but if somebody had to know, he figures it could be worse than her.

He isn’t exactly sure what sets him off. Maybe it’s the fact that even after sixteen pills of advil his shoulder still aches (he would’ve taken more had Dorothea not cut him off). The pain never really went away after he broke it, but some days are worse than others. It makes him snappy, and frustrating fragile. 

Maybe it’s that Professor Hannamen assigned a fucking group project, and he was stuck working with _ Lorenz _ of all people. Insufferable prick. He’d spend the entire time going off about trickle down economics or something. God, they’d never get it done.

Or, maybe, it was that he got a call from his mom. Had he been sleeping okay? Eating properly? He lied and said yes to both. Cynthia called. Her daughter is getting married. When was Sylvain going to bring a nice girl home?

Nevermind, it's probably that.

Caspar, bless his soul, is smart enough not to get Byleth when Sylvain accidently wakes him up at 2am during his fucking breakdown. The poor graduate student needs as much sleep as she can get, why she became RA as well was beyond him.

He should probably go to the hospital, what with how much he's bleeding, but he really,_ really, _ doesn't want to. Can't, more likely. If his parents found out they'd force him home for sure. Probably yell about how he’s disappointing them, and why can’t he just be better than this? He can't go back. Can't be suffocated like that. Can’t live that lie. Honestly, he’d probably try to kill himself again. Would probably succeed this time too.

"Sylvain?" Her voice is soft. When did Mercedes even get here? He barely registered Caspar leaving the room, and didn't notice anyone come back in. He’s dissociating isn’t he? "Hey, look at me?"

He doesn't know why he listens, but he does. He's sitting in his boxers, rolled up on one leg. A towel held to his thigh. At least it's bleeding less than it could have been. 

His breath is still too quick, tears still streaming from his face. Fuck. He’s such a little bitch. Worthless, stupid, disgusting.

Mercedes takes the blade, forgotten on the ground next to him. Her smile isn't judgemental. God, she really is going to make an amazing Social Worker.

"Breathe, okay? Count with me?" She guides him, not yet worrying about the blood spilling into the towel. It isn't life threatening.

He breathes. It's hard, every one he takes is hitched and shaky, but he tries to follow her count. They make it to seventy-six before she's satisfied. 

"It's okay Sylvain," she smiled softly at him. "Can I touch you?"

Most of the time that question is asked in a _ very _different situation. He nods anyways.

A hand finds his shoulder, grounding. The other hovers over his hand, just above the injury.

"Can I see?" 

Fuck. If she sees she'll know. She'll find out. That can't happen, nobody-

"I promise, I won't tell anybody."

Maybe it's because she's so gentle that he allows her. Maybe it's because he’s just so fucking tired of hiding it, of being ashamed. How long had he even kept this a secret?

He loosens his grip, allows her to pull it away.

The bleeding had died down. Likely due to the pressure he was keeping on it. He's not a _ complete _idiot. 

Idiot. The word makes him cringe. It reminds him of- he pushes the thought from his head before it can take root. He’s barely keeping himself together as it is. Fuck, he really wants to throw himself off a roof. Maybe it’d actually kill him this time. Besides, if Felix knew about this, about the way he felt or the letters now carved into his flesh, he’d be disgusted.

Mercedes pulls a small first aid kit out of her bag, because of course she has one. She probably keeps a fucking CPR mask in there

"Where's Caspar?" He finds himself asking. His throat is sore and dry. Probably from the sobbing. But if he's going to be forced to come out, it would be better if it were only to Mercedes. 

"My room," she’s looking carefully at the wound. "He's probably passed out on my bed already. He sleeps like a rock."

For some reason, Sylvain laughs. "Yeah, you're telling me."

The silence falls back between them. It's awkward, tense. She can see the full wound now, surely she sees what it says. The letters each slash form, and what they mean.

If she does, she doesn't mention it. 

Sylvain isn't sure whether or not he's thankful for it.

"This will sting." She takes out an alcohol wipe, the smell penetrates the room. At least he and Caspar keep it clean and not smelling like something died. Aside from maybe his dignity. 

She hums while she works. "This should really get stitches." He freezes, body tensing. His shoulder protests. Her hand finds it again. "Relax, I won't make you go, but this will need to have an eye kept on it." She takes butterfly bandages from the kit, and pulls the wound together with the expertise of somebody who has done this multiple times before. She takes the towel from him, bundles it so the blood won’t touch anything else, and tosses it into his laundry. “That’ll need bleach.”

They sit in silence for awhile. He wonders if she’s going to bring it up. She doesn’t.

Eventually, when his breathing has fully calmed, and lethargy creeps in to replace the panic, Mercedes speaks.

“Come on,” she tells him, “you should sleep.” She holds out her hand, smiling softly in the dim light. How is it that she still looks so warm and welcoming?

He takes it, lets her pull him to his feet. He leans his weight on her to keep from causing himself more unnecessary pain. He knows he should probably say something, but he’s just so exhausted. 

“Come on,” she whispers as she guides him to his bed. “Just sleep, Sylvain.”

He’s asleep almost as soon as his head hits the pillow.

Several hours later, Sylvain wakes up to a note and a chocolate chip muffin. The midmorning light is filtering through his closed blinds. His leg is aching. 

_ I told your profs that you’re sick. Hannamen said he’d email you. Feel better! _

_ _ \- Mercedes _ _

It's only then that the previous night hits him, a pool of guilt and regret.

“Fuck.”

* * *

Mercedes doesn’t bring it up. It’s been three days and the suspense is absolutely _ killing _ him. Does she know? Did she really not see? Did she think it was for a different reason?

Sylvain swore as he walked to her dorm. He couldn’t believe he was actually going to talk to her about this, but he couldn’t starve it off any longer.

There’s no way she didn’t know, but he had to be certain.

She welcomes him into the room, currently just housing her. Lucky. As much as he likes Caspar, he still would have rathered his own room, like everybody else.

“Sylvain!” her smile is sweet. “What brings you here? Tea?” There's a kettle sitting on top of her dresser. 

“Better not let Byleth catch you with that,” he half jokes. 

“Oh she doesn’t mind. I offered her tea during exam season last semester,” Mercedes explained as she took a seat on her bed. She left her desk chair open for Sylvain.

He took it.

An awkward silence falls over them, so much like that night, and so unlike usual. Mercedes fidgets with her half drank tea. She doesn’t seem willing to start the conversation after already asking Sylvain why he’s there.

Eventually, he cracks.

“I know that you know,” he says, which is honestly the vaguest way to start a conversation. 

“You know that I know what?” Was she playing ignorant on purpose?

He tries a different approach. “On Tuesday, my leg. The word.”

“Ah,” she puts her tea down, still smiling, although it had a sense of bitter sweetness to it. “Sylvain, whatever I saw or didn’t see, know or don’t know, doesn’t matter.”

“I know you saw it though!” he argues, already feeling himself getting worked up.

Mercedes sighs. “Yes, I did,” she confirms, “but... how should I say this?” She’s quiet for a moment, thinking her words through. 

Sylvain on the other hand is trying desperately to starve off the edges of panic. 

“What I saw doesn’t matter,” she eventually repeats, “ because whatever it means, whatever significance it has, is your secret to tell. I know you’ll tell me when you’re ready, and if that’s never, than that’s okay too.”

She’s giving him the option, an out. He doesn’t need to tell her. They can just pretend it never happened. He can go on flirting with girls and she can feign ignorance.

Is that what he wants? 

In all the years he’s known, he’s never told a soul. Never even admitted the words to the men he slept with. Never admitted them to himself.

“I...” he tries. “I’m- Fuck.” He lets his hands cradle his head. “I’ve never told anybody.”

“And that’s okay,,” she says. “And It’s okay if you aren’t ready to now. I’ll still be here when you are.”

Good God, what did he ever do to deserve a friend like Mercedes?

If he was going to tell the story, he needed to explain the context. “When I was ten, my older brother was kicked out for being gay. He was sixteen.”

“That’s terrible,” she replies, her voice mournful. 

“Yeah,” he laughed a little. “I figured out I was... like that, _ am _ like that, when I was twelve.” Even after all this time, Sylvain can’t say the words, can’t admit it, or it might be true. 

“I understand,” Mercedes says as she pulls out her phone. She taps at the screen. “I don’t believe I’ve ever told you, since it was never relevant, but this-” she holds up her phone. It has a photo on it of Mercedes with her arms wrapped around a beautiful redhead. “- is my girlfriend, Annette.”

He wishes he was more surprised, and doesn’t understand why he isn’t. He tells her as much.

They laugh, and talk. Eventually, they share stories of their various exploits. It’s like nothing Sylvain has ever experienced, just to be able to _ talk _to somebody.

“So,” she says after a while. “About your leg.” She watches to see if she stepped over a line. Sylvain is tense, but okay. “Who’s Felix?”

_ Felix. _The letters carved into his skin.

“The person I’ve always been in love with.”


End file.
